A REPORTER FROM ZAIRE

Her palms are sweaty…
His are dry and firm, how can he be so calm?
She is all he ever wanted in a woman…he often quipped.
Why the foreboding feeling creeping down her spine?
 
His mother is loving and warm,
Who then is this cold and spiteful being with eyes that mirror mine?
She adorns her disapproval like a choice shawl.
Why wont the ground open up and just let me fall?

Look at them, who do they think they are?
With accents heavy and thick, they waltz around sacred ground.
In the blackest of silent nights…
Envy waters little seeds of hate that sprout absent the light.

Walking amongst us, feeding off our land…they flourish
Suckling our women and tilling our earth
I say, death to strangers! They will not share our heritage.
They are not us, they never were and never will.

A child lays bare, more bones than flesh…
Innocent in all but the color of his skin and the one thing he could not choose, family.
Old and young, Rich and poor…they walk past the dying child
Who would reach out to the outsider?

Night and day, sun and rain…time races on.
Where a boy lay helpless till his final breath, a seed will grow.
A tree born from blood and tears to shield the true born from the rage of the bleeding sun.

The Aventurine.